


Lupine

by dollcewrites, itsmylifekay



Series: Lupine [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:23:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7051219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollcewrites/pseuds/dollcewrites, https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmylifekay/pseuds/itsmylifekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sanji’s beginning to suspect there’s something other than human living in the apartment next door—and not just his inhumanely attractive neighbour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lupine

 

_And for today’s forecast we have a seventy percent chance of rain with possible thunderstorms going into the evening…_

Sanji sighs and leans his head against the back of the couch, exhaling a wispy cloud of smoke that curls towards the ceiling. There are cracks and water stains above him, shoddy patch jobs on the walls; the floors squeak and the pipes creak and the windows don’t open all the way. Most apartments in the small complex mirror his own’s flaws, a collaboration of noises and aches, oddly comforting in their existence. They’re lived in. It’s home.

It’s _his_ home.

It’s not his family’s or Zeff’s or anyone else’s. He pays for this flat on his own with his salary from the restaurant, and keeps the kitchen well stocked and everything else in order. It may not be glamorous, but it’s his and he loves it fiercely for that, is protective of it for the same reasons.

He’s understandably curious when a new resident moves in next door.

His previous neighbor had been virtually non-existent, constantly out doing who knows what with god knows who, so he’s used to things being pretty quiet from that side of the wall.

He’s definitely _not_ used to the weird scratching, clicking, and thumping around that he’s currently hearing, despite having listened to it on and off for the past couple weeks. The man living there now, Zoro, seems nice enough—if not a little odd and rough around the edges. His hair is green, which Sanji doesn’t quite know what to think of, and he doesn’t seem to talk much either. But he does know Zoro’s living there alone, supposedly.

But Sanji’s convinced no single human could make that much noise, it almost sounds like some kind of animal. But it seems too large to be a cat and he hasn’t heard a single bark, so he’s not even sure what else that leaves. And Zoro hasn’t said anything about a pet either.

The weatherman is somehow still talking and Sanji glances back at the screen, taking another drag on his cigarette when he hears a knock on his door.

“Coming,” he calls. His cigarette smokes between his fingers and his feet are bare as he pads across the floor, checking the spyhole before opening the door with a smile. “Viola! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Viola smiles back, as kind and gentle as always, and holds out a measuring cup. Her olive skin is glowing and smooth, waves of lustrous dark hair pinned at the back of her head. Sanji’s heart flutters at her beauty. “As cliche as it sounds, I was wondering if you could spare a cup of sugar?”

“But of course, anything for you,” Sanji says, ushering her in right away. The kitchen is small, so Viola waits in the doorway while Sanji takes the offered cup and scoops it full of sugar, chatting merrily all the while as Viola nods and smiles along.

“Always so full of energy,” she laughs, cup back in her hands as they head towards the door. “But I suppose that’s good for being a chef, being on your feet all day.”

“Ah, but all of my energy comes from my love for you,” Sanji says, leaning in the doorway and smiling at the gentle laugh she gives.

“Thank you for the sugar,” she says, “I’ll give you some of the brownies in return.”

Sanji thinks that’s more than a fair trade, a cup of sugar for homemade brownies? He’ll take that deal any day. “I’ll treasure them,” he says. Her door shuts and he’s about to turn in as well, but stops when he feels someone watching him.

“Do you flirt like that with all our neighbors?” Zoro asks, leant against his own doorway.

Somehow, his mere presence manages to irritate Sanji. Something about the cocky set of his shoulders, or the way he manages to look smug and teasing without actually changing his face.

“Do you eavesdrop on all our neighbors?” Sanji shoots back. “Or is it just me you’ve decided to creepily spy on?”

Zoro lets out a _hmph_ , like the too-cool-for-school version of laughter. It makes Sanji want to punch him, just a little.  

“Not my fault you decided to be Romeo in the hall,” Zoro shrugs. “I just wanted to get to the stairs.”

“The elevator is literally two doors down,” Sanji says, gesturing towards the empty hall behind Zoro’s back. “Nobody takes the stairs, we’re on the tenth floor.”

Zoro shrugs again and steps out into the hall, locks his door and gives Sanji a look.

He takes the fucking stairs.

The urge to punch him gets a little bit stronger.

 —

Sanji slept horribly.  
  
The forecast had been right; there was thunder. While the rumblings could have thrown him off sleep, the song of rain had been pleasant enough to lull him to sleep.

The problem was the noises from next door.

The shared walls of the apartments are thin, and a scratching at one in the morning was enough to rouse Sanji from his sleep. He’d always been a light sleeper.

He’d tried desperately to get back to sleep, but whenever he felt close, the blanket of sleep was yet again pulled out from under him by another noise. If Zoro did have a pet—and surely, he must—it apparently did _not_ like thunder.

At one point, Sanji thought he heard a keening—but it wasn’t the kind that people make during nightmares or sex. He’d put the strange whine down to his bleary grasp on reality. An auditory fragment of a dream.

Cooks need their sleep. Especially professional ones, with jobs that start soon after sunrise.

Dragging his heavy body from bed at five in the morning was a downright distasteful act. A hot shower and coffee had roused him enough to get him on his feet and to work, but by the end of the day his spine was sagging at his station.

He plates the last of the dishes: choice desserts, presented artfully on large white platters like moons. His apron is hung neatly from it’s hook, and he checks out.

He’d been in the kitchen all day, so he hadn’t seen the sky since that morning. It’s purpling now, darkness spreading down from space as the sun recedes below the horizon.

And it’s raining again.

He uses his umbrella to get to his car, black wings folding out above him in a dome. Rainwater from the gutter splashes the hem of his pants and he frowns.

He’s chilled to bone when he gets home, despite the car having sputtered warm air out as best it could on the drive. For the most part, he’s not damp, but the air is. The cold is soaking through his clothes and pricking his skin.

Retrieving his apartment key from his pocket, he slots it into his front door. It proves difficult because of his fingers which are numbing from the cold and refusing to curl properly.

A wet slosh alerts him to someone else’s presence. He turns his head to see Zoro trudging up the stairs, completely drenched. His green hair is plastered to his head like actual seaweed, and his shirt is like a second skin. A white, wet, transparent skin, through which Sanji can see every sculpted muscle beneath.

He snaps his head back. While his fingers continue to numb, blood is rushing to his cheeks, his collar heating up. He prays Zoro’s won't look his way.

It’s not as if he’s paying acute attention, but he hears the chime of Zoro’s keys followed by the click of Zoro’s lock.

There’s a moment of silence.

Sanji sneaks a glance to the side, and then—

Droplets of water are sprayed at him, dotting his sleeves and skin, and there’s a tinkling noise from Zoro’s earrings as he _shakes his head,_ of all things. Like a dog fresh out of a lake.

“What the _hell?_ ” Sanji spits.

Zoro eyes him as he straightens up. He shakes his leg out, more droplets spraying everywhere. He next rolls the front half of his shirt in his hands and squeezes nearly a cup of water out. “What?”

Sanji tries not to look at the tanned muscles of his abdomen, and fails abysmally. His rage only wells up further. “What are you, an animal? You just sprayed me with water.”

Zoro grins. “Sorry about that.” He does not look sorry.

Gritting his teeth, Sanji turns back to where his key is stuck in the lock. He doesn’t have time for this, he wants a hot shower, and maybe a hot chocolate.

But the key is very much jammed. He can barely rattle it. A curse slips out under his breath.

A warm presence heats his side. He looks up to see Zoro’s eyes watching his hands grapple with the lock. “Would you like some help with that?”

Sanji would like to say _No, no I would not like your help with this._

But he does. His precious hands don’t deserve to get any colder than this, and he’s tired, and Zoro’s voice was genuine this time, only traces of teasing left over.

He steps back a little. “It’s stuck.”

Zoro makes a humming sound. He holds the end of the key between two fingers and gives it some experimental pushes.

His face is close. Sanji can see a droplet of water slide over his temple and traverse down his cheekbone, stopping at his sharp jaw, where other stray droplets are collecting. He wonders how Zoro feels so warm, like a furnace beside him, not a single shiver in his form.

With a twist, there’s a satisfying clicking sound. Zoro smiles as he steps back, placing Sanji’s key in his hand.

“What the...” murmurs Sanji. “How’d you do that?”

Zoro shrugs. “I think your fingers were just a little too stiff from the cold.”

He can’t disagree with that.

“Well, thanks.” It feels rather awkward for a moment. “Anyway, I’m going to go have a hot shower… Maybe you should too. You smell.” He wrinkles his nose for effect.

Zoro bristles. “Of what?!”

_Of what?_ Sanji thinks. _What is that smell? Oh, right._

“Wet dog.”

Zoro blanches for a moment, and Sanji is thrown for a loop, mouth open to say something, worried he’s overstepped some line. But Zoro just laughs.

Curiosity eats at Sanji’s stomach and Zoro’s laughter makes him bold. “Do you have a dog?” he asks suddenly, and after a moment of deliberation, decides to add in some explanation. “You must have some kind of pet, I hear it sometimes.”

“Oh.” Zoro looks back at his own door. “Yes, yeah, I do. I’m a real dog person, honestly.”

Sanji could see that about him.

Personally, he’s more into cats.

 ---

“Make sure to wrap that coat around you tight, dearie,” Carol says, ringing up the last of Sanji’s groceries and giving him an appraising eye. “It’s blowing up a storm out there and you young people these days never dress warmly enough.”

Sanji hides laughter behind a genuine smile and stacks more produce carefully into his bags, fully aware of the windy day outside. “I have a scarf in my bag,” he says to appease her. Because as good natured as the woman is, she has a tendency to worry and Sanji never likes to see a lady in distress.

Carol nods and taps buttons on her screen as Sanji scans his card, hands him his receipt with a smile, “You stay warm out there and get home safely.”

“The same to you, don’t make me come back here just to walk you home.”

“Oh, you.” She chuckles at the threat and waves him off, “You know me and Lindley walk home together now.”

“Alright, have a nice night then.”

The bell jingles above him as he pushes out into the evening dusk, sidewalk illuminated by the full moon hanging heavy overhead and the street lamps throwing puddles of soft glowing light. Winter has melted into spring and the weather has finally gotten warmer, but storm fronts and sharp winds keep Sanji in a jacket and the occasional rain slicker. He tugs his jacket closer around him, wraps his scarf tightly around his neck and tucks in the ends before making his way home with quick, measured steps.

The hall is quiet and his footsteps echo in the tight space, keys jingling noisily before he bumps open the door with his hip. Dumping the bags on the counter, he sighs and digs into his back pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and slipping one between his lips. His lighter sparks and smoke quickly fills his lungs and the kitchen, pulled up through the vent above the stove as he unpacks the groceries. After a few minutes he flicks on the radio.

_We’re looking at possible pop-up showers through the night and another cloudy day tomorrow--_

Shutting the fridge door he reaches over and changes the station, settling for something smooth and jazzy that he can swing his hips to as he moves around the kitchen. Time passes easily and before long, he’s leaning against the counter finishing the last of his latest cigarette.

A good evening, all and all, and Sanji is dead tired from running around at work. He’s about to pour himself a glass of wine before bed when he hears it—a howl, long and drawn out from the room next door.

A fucking _howl._

Sanji’s been worried about Zoro’s dog for a while now. He never sees it, never hears Zoro taking it out for walks or even talking to it. He’s never seen Zoro coming back to the apartment with food or toys or anything. Zoro seems like an okay guy, but Sanji can’t help but wonder if he’s taking care of the dog properly.

Another howl echoes through the walls.

It sounds upset, but Sanji doesn’t know what he can do about it. Hopefully Zoro will feed it or take it out or whatever before too long.

Except he doesn’t.

Nearly an hour passes and Zoro’s dog it still howling off and on, claws clicking on the hardwoods as it passes through the apartment. Occasionally Sanji will hear scratching, like it’s pawing at the window or the door, but the howling is really what does him in.

It’s midnight on the dot when the most haunting howl comes through the wall and reverberates down to Sanji’s very core. His hair stands on end and a shiver goes up his spine. The thing sounds _wrecked_ and Sanji can’t bare it a moment longer.

Stubbing out his cigarette and stomping out into the hallway, he bangs on Zoro’s door.

“Zoro,” he calls, waiting a moment before he bangs at the door again. “Zoro, come on.”

There’s no response and Sanji heaves out a breath before thumping his forehead against the unresponsive wood. “Are you even home?”

Nothing.

He listens carefully and can hear no signs of Zoro in the apartment, no TV or footsteps or music. Nothing. Come to think of it, Sanji doesn’t remember hearing him come home. Although Zoro doesn’t seem to keep strict hours so he could’ve gotten back before Sanji…

But the apartment’s been quiet all evening other than the dog.

Sanji does some quick math in his head, realizing this poor thing has been on its own for hours and might even be left to fend for itself until morning. A low, lingering howl leaks into the hall and Sanji bites his lip.

_What if it’s sick?_

_What if Zoro’s dog is actually dying and no one is there to save it?_

_What if something’s seriously wrong?_

His worry only spikes when the next howl fades away, softer than all the rest and shorter too. Then there’s a deafening silence, no more pacing or pawing or howling.

“Fuck,” Sanji breathes. _Fuck fuck fuck._ Because what if the thing is fucking dead? What if it needs the vet? There’s no way a dog sounds like that unless something is seriously the matter.

Running back into his apartment, he grabs some tools from the kitchen and comes back to Zoro’s door, taking the time to mutter a half-assed apology before he goes to work on the handle. He gets the lock undone as quick as he can and sets his tools on the hallway floor, wanting both hands free for whatever he finds inside.

Dogs are supposed to be man’s best friend or whatever, but this one sounds less than amiable to its current situation. And a sick animal is an unpredictable one.

He’s cautious as he makes his way into Zoro’s apartment, shutting the door behind him as he steps softly through the entryway. “Zoro?” he calls. “Zoro if you’re home, it’s me. Sanji from next door. You should take care of your fucking dog so other people don’t have to break into your apartment to check on it.”

The talking is mostly to distract himself, but it almost makes it worse—how his voice echoes in the sparsely furnished space. It’s dark, the only light what’s spilling in from the outside, hazy moonlight dappled with clouds. He’s about to walk further into Zoro’s living room and look for a light when something moves on the couch by the window.

Sanji’s heart contracts in his chest.

The hulking figure is mostly in shadow, but Sanji’s eyes make out pyramid pointed ears with rounded tips, a mass of muscle under a thick coat, paws with pads the size of his palm. The thing is, it’s much bigger than Sanji had anticipated… _much_ bigger. It could absolutely maul him with claws and sheer size alone, jaws unspoken for. A cloud shifts in the sky above, uncovering the moon. Liquid silver light falls onto the couch, illuminating the undeniably real, alive, full form of a wolf. There’s no doubt in his mind that it’s a wolf, and Sanji’s seen enough Animal Planet to know that this doesn’t end well for him.

He takes a step back and the floor creaks, that small sound somehow drawing the beast’s attention despite all of Sanji’s earlier yelling. One eye flicks open, round and golden and primal in the way it watches Sanji from across the room.

“I’ll just be leaving then,” Sanji says slowly. The wolf’s eye slides shut and Sanji takes another step back. “That’s right, nothing to see here.” He backs his way to the door and as soon as he’s over the threshold slams it behind him, making quick work of putting the lock back in place before escaping to his own apartment.

“Holy fuck,” he says. “Holy _fuck._ ” His heart is still thundering in his chest and his adrenaline is making his breath come quicker, entire body still on high alert.

Because that had been a wolf. A wolf with fangs and claws and predatory instincts. And despite himself Sanji starts to laugh, high on endorphins and struck with the realization that _of course_ Zoro can’t take that thing for walks _._ He’s pretty sure the whole situation is actually illegal. Like, very illegal. Which makes him feel better about the whole breaking-into-Zoro’s-apartment thing. Because if Zoro gets mad...well, he can’t exactly call the police when he has a _fucking wolf_ just chilling at his place.

But as Sanji gets his breathing under control and heads to his room he can’t quite shake an odd feeling, something lingering just in the back of his mind.

It’s not until he lays down and stares at the ceiling, traces the cracks there and starts to finally fall asleep that it hits him—the wolf’s eyes, he felt like he knew them from somewhere.

Impossible, yet...

That haunting, familiar stare follows him into sleep.

 --

 Sanji’s hand hovers for a moment, inches from the door, before he raps on the surface with his knuckles.

He didn’t hear Zoro get back, but he must have, because Sanji hears scuffling followed by the distinctive sounds of footsteps, and then the door is wrenched open.

Zoro is a mess.

His hair stands in tufts like he slept on it dampened, he has dark fingerprints of fatigue under his eyes, and he’s swaying slightly, blinking groggily at Sanji. A hand moves to scratch his bare stomach and Sanji’s eyes follow it down, over prominent pectorals all the way to v-lines plunging into the man’s boxers—the only item of clothing on his body.

Zoro is a _hot_ mess.

Sanji feels a line of heat rise up his body and regrets letting his line of sight drop, even for a moment. He affixes his eyes on Zoro’s face. He’s here for a reason, he can’t forget. There’s no way he could forget. He just wants to check if he’s losing mind, because the longer he waits the more last night seems like an impossible dream.

He finds his voice. “I was wondering if I could borrow some milk? I wanted to make pancakes, but I’m a little bit short.”

Zoro furrows a single brow and yawns, jaw stretching wide to reveal rows of teeth. “Sure, come in.”

Sanji follows Zoro into his kitchen, eyes peering into every corner, searching the shadows under the coffee table, the crevices of the couch. He even goes so far as to tip-toe to where he can peer into Zoro’s bedroom, which is void of any wild animals. As it should be.

Sanji shuffles back to the kitchen where Zoro is pouring milk into a coffee mug.

In the daylight, the flat isn’t so menacing. There are some things the sun the reveals that he couldn’t have noticed yesterday: the worn surface of the floorboards, the scratches on the legs of the coffee table, the holes in the couch.

But no wolf.

_Should he be relieved that there isn’t one? Or should he be worried his mind conjured up something so surreal?_

Sanji accepts the mug of milk Zoro offers him, forgetting to comment on the lack of a measuring cup and the quaintness of a mug. He has stranger things on his mind.

“So, where’s your, uh, dog?”

Zoro stares at him for a second, as if he didn’t hear what Sanji said. “My dog is at my sister’s house," he provides, complete with a loose, noncommittal hand gesture. “She babysits him sometimes when I work late.”

“Oh.” Sanji looks down at the bone white surface of the milk, a full moon cupped between his hands, corralled by the circular confines of the mug. “Well, thanks for the milk. I’ll see you around.”

Zoro walks him to the door, still blinking sleepily. “You too.”

The door shuts behind Sanji and he looks down once more at the milk in his hands, which he doesn’t need anyway, as if it holds the answers to life under it’s surface.

Maybe he imagined last night. That’s the logical explanation. He must have been so tired from sleeping poorly two nights in a row that he’d gotten delusional from sleep deprivation. And where would you find a wolf in the middle of the city anyway?

It must have been a dream, after all.

—

Sanji’s suffering. He’s being driven insane by either one of the most elaborate practical jokes known to man, or some kind of horrible, cosmic force that likes to see him miserable.

He’s lost so much sleep the past week that even his oafish co-workers have noticed. There are actual _bags_ under his eyes and he realized yesterday that he had forgotten to iron his shirt, and had thus been walking around wearing a wrinkled monstrosity declaring his unraveled state to anyone who cared to look.

And it’s all because of _him._

Roronoa Zoro.

Sanji can’t stop thinking about him and his stupid dog. Because on the one hand, Zoro is one of the finest specimens of manhood Sanji’s seen in his twenty-three years of life. But there’s also the little issue of the wolf. The dream wolf. The wolf that Sanji definitely, one-hundred percent imagined. Sanji just can’t get it out of his mind, to the point that whenever he hears noises from Zoro’s apartment it’s the wolf that he pictures loping around the small space. The couch creaks and it’s the wolf settling in for a nap. Claws click on the floor and he sees giant paws padding across the tile.

Every time he hears a howl, a shiver runs down his spine.

It’s a horrible predicament he’s found himself in. Because in the halls he can’t help but take every opportunity to stare and make a fool of himself around Zoro’s unflinching and attractive face. And in his apartment he can’t help but feel on edge with every small sound he hears through the walls.

At first it had been manageable, they’d cross paths and Sanji would give him a nod or a smile, simple neighborly stuff. But now that they’ve had an actual conversation the game has changed and Zoro _talks_ to him. It would be amazing if it wasn’t currently giving Sanji minor heart failure.

Even getting the mail has become hazardous. He’d happened to go down when Zoro was getting his and their shoulders had bumped and their eyes had met and about ten years had promptly come off of Sanji’s life. Ten years he’d wanted to spend relaxing somewhere in the tropics, gone in the span of one simple exchange about weather and water leaks and pancakes.

Sanji’s just walking back to his flat, strung out from work and the stress of his brain slowly cannibalizing itself, when he sees the emergency exit door open from down the hall and that stupid green hair that’s been haunting his fantasies appears before his eyes. But that’s not the only part of Sanji’s fantasies that suddenly decides to come to life.

Zoro has obviously just come back from the gym. Sweat drips down the line of his neck and glistens on the defined swell of his biceps, colors the edges of his hairline a slightly darker shade. He’s wearing a muscle tank that should be made illegal and shorts that show off the definition of his calves. There’s a towel slung over one shoulder and a water bottle in his hand that he lifts to take a drink from, baring the line of his throat and the bob of his adam’s apple to Sanji’s rapidly widening eyes. Some water slips from his mouth and wets his lips as he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

It’s horrible, it’s _pornographic,_ and all Sanji can think is _why the fuck is this my life?_

But their eyes have met and he knows he has to say something, can’t just stand there gaping like an idiot even if they are awkwardly far apart in the hall. “Um, hey,” he starts, having to lift his voice slightly as they approach. “See you’ve been working out.”

Zoro grunts and rubs the towel at the back of his neck, “See you’ve been working.” He looks Sanji up and down, eyes lingering on his face as they briefly cross paths to reach their respective doors.

“Yeah, long day,” Sanji sighs. His key decides to behave today and he cracks open his door as Zoro leans against his own doorframe. “I just want to sleep.”

Humming in agreement, Zoro says, “Same,” then wipes away more sweat with his towel and adds, “Have to shower first though.”

And that, that is an image Sanji doesn’t need—at all. He’s positive his face turns slightly pink as his imagination runs away from him, but Zoro doesn’t seem to notice, just echoes Sanji’s hasty _‘good night’_ and disappears into his apartment without another word.

But Sanji’s overactive imagination doesn’t stop there, it keeps going as Sanji toes off his shoes and hangs his keys, as he showers and brushes his teeth. It follows him all the way into the bedroom where he lies beneath the covers defenseless as his mind conjures up image after image of Zoro muscled and sweaty and in all sorts of compromising positions. He contemplates taking another, much colder, shower but decides to hell with it. He’s a grown man with wants and needs, and maybe taking the edge off will help his sanity.

He’s already half hard when he wraps fingers around himself and lightly tugs, biting down on his lip as his hips twitch and his eyes squeeze shut. His mind instantly takes the opportunity to warp reality, exchange his own slender fingers for thicker ones, take the smooth glide of his palm and make it rougher, calloused in all the right places.

He works himself over until he’s fully hard in his palm then sets up a steady rhythm, hips rolling into his hand as his breath comes quicker and sweat beads at his temples. He wonders if Zoro would be a rough lover, as intense and unyielding as his demeanor suggests, or if he would be surprisingly gentle, would take Sanji apart or let Sanji take him. A quiet moan escapes his lips as he imagines all the possibilities. Zoro warm all around him, above him, below him, hot and sweaty and slick against Sanji’s hands.

He’d look at Sanji and oh god his face, Sanji bets his face would be amazing, intense—emotion thrumming under the surface and flickering to the top just as he found release. He’d be beautiful.

And Sanji would tell him so, would hold him close and whisper adoration and praise and filth. He’d give Zoro everything he needed and more and Zoro would love it, love him, want to mark him and claim him and make him his. Would want to show him off to the whole world.

Sanji can’t hold in the groans and whimpers leaving his lips, head pressed into the pillowcase as he chases his release, hand moving faster as he imagines what Zoro would sound like, what his breath would feel like against his ear, what his lips would taste like against Sanji’s tongue. Sanji’s hips stutter and he lets out a low cry of Zoro’s name, quickly turning to muffle the sound in his pillow as he strokes himself through his release, entire body tingling down to his toes as he pants into the sudden vastness of his room.

There’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach piercing through the hazy veil of climax, something that settles into the back of his mind like a splinter.

Because Zoro’s eyes… Zoro’s eyes at the very end as he’d watched Sanji come undone beneath his hand—Sanji recognized those eyes. He recognized the wolf and the primal instinct looming in their depths.

Zoro may be attractive and Sanji may have a worryingly large infatuation with the man, but that doesn’t mean Sanji trusts him. Something is off. Something is definitely, definitely off.

And Sanji just knows it has to do with that fucking wolf, dream induced or not.

 —

When Zoro hears it, he can barely believe it. If he had hackles in this form they would’ve raised. As it is, the hairs on the back of his neck tingle.

His ears are oversensitive, even like this. On a good day, it still drives him nuts. A clang of cutlery on tiles makes his body rigid for a moment, and he can identify if it was a knife or fork with his eyes closed. He can’t sleep when a neighbour two doors down is snoring. Turning on the TV won’t mask the sounds of lovemaking across the hall—Zoro usually leaves the building, goes for a walk.

Usually the sounds of anything less-than-savoury don’t interest Zoro, and indeed, sometimes they’re a little gross. It’s not his business. He’d rather not hear.

But it’s not just anyone moaning and breathy next door.

It’s his cute blond neighbour. It’s Sanji.

The slick sounds and the minute, soft rustle of sheets make Zoro quiet to catch them. The panting rouses his interest, more in a curious way than any other, but still, he’s somewhat fascinated.

This is increased doubly so when he hears it—his name. Two syllables. _Zo-ro_. Unmistakeable.

Heat rises to fill his cheekbones, and suddenly he feels intensely guilty, like he’s invading Sanji’s privacy. He shouldn’t have been listening in the first place, even if he can’t help hearing the sounds. He could have put headphones on, played some music, watched Netflix. He _could_ have, but he didn’t.

He does that now, hands scrambling for padded headphones and his laptop.

It may have been his name, but it wasn’t for him to hear.

He sort of wishes it was.

—

Days pass and Sanji finds an uneasy equilibrium. He goes to work, lives his life, and tries to keep the most outrageous of his worries about Zoro in the back of his mind. There’s nothing he can do for them anyway, no way he can confront Zoro about a wolf he’s not even sure exists without sounding completely unhinged. They’re not really friends, anyway, and Sanji knows he wouldn’t appreciate it if one of his neighbors started poking their nose into his business. Maybe one day he’ll know Zoro well enough to tell him about it, to laugh together at the uneasy fantasy his mind had conjured up.

But for now he’ll mind his own business.

Which is exactly what he’s doing late on a Friday night, tucked into the corner of his couch with a good book and the TV on low, cigarette between his lips and smoke in the air.

The sun has just started to set and the sky is a mixture of hazy purples and pinks, swatches of deepening color that shift with the movement of the sun. It’s a sight Sanji hardly ever gets to see and he sets his book in his lap to take it in. After nearly three weeks of constant clouds and storms, this little slice of clarity seems especially beautiful, nice enough for a painting if Sanji had those skills but he settles for snapping a quick picture with his phone instead.

A sudden _thud_ out in the hallway tears him away from the view and his curiosity gets the best of him, leading him to the door where he peers out the spyhole to see what had caused the noise.

He’s expecting another tenant with a heavy package, or maybe Viola coming back with a load of groceries. What he isn’t expecting is to see Zoro slumped against the wall, a smear of blood in his wake and bloody handprints flowering on the wall. Crimson droplets bud on the floor in his wake.

A moment later Zoro picks himself up, slowly, rolling his shoulder against the wall and levering himself into a more upright position. He uses the momentum of the movement to get him those final steps to his door then limps into his apartment and out of sight.

Sanji blinks, unable to believe what he’s just seen.

Zoro had looked _wrecked._ And for Zoro, muscled up and slightly unnerving Zoro, to be that messed up—some serious shit must’ve gone down. Serious enough for it to look like a murder scene out in the hall.

And with all of that blood loss, Sanji has no idea why the man isn’t in the hospital.

Unless he _couldn’t_ go.

_Had he been doing something illegal?_

_Was there a gang fight?_

_Is Zoro in a fucking_ gang _?_

That would certainly explain some of the shady feelings Sanji’s been getting about the man, but somehow the idea doesn’t seem quite right. What Sanji does know for certain is that all of that blood needs to be wiped off before anyone else can see it and call the police.

With a rag, some cleaner, and a bucket of water from his kitchen, Sanji sets to work scrubbing at the walls. He figures the handprints are the most unnerving and does those first before moving on to the random smears and smudges and then gets the splatters on the floor. It takes him nearly half an hour before everything is clean and Zoro’s apartment has been eerily quiet for the majority of the time. At first his dog had made some noise, a few whimpers and whines that showed the animal was as worried as Sanji about Zoro’s condition. Now there’s nothing.

He puts the cleaning supplies away and stands in the center of his own apartment. Zoro’s a grown man, he can call for help if he needs it. He’d mentioned a sister before, surely he could call her if he couldn’t go to an actual hospital. A few minutes tick past and Sanji lights another cigarette, drawing the smoke into his lungs and letting it calm his nerves just a little.

The sun has fully set and the sky is one grey canvas, cloudless and blank except for the waning crescent of the moon. His TV is still going and the weatherman is cheerily predicting a sunny day for tomorrow, no chance of rain and a cloudless sky. Sanji turns it off and bites his lip. Now that there’s no task to distract him, reality is setting in.

Worry is still gnawing at his gut and he decides he might have to confront Zoro after all, especially if he’s just helped him get rid of evidence and could now be considered an accessory to some kind of crime.

But that’s not really what he’s most worried about. He’s worried about _Zoro._ No one’s come or gone from his apartment and he hasn’t heard the phone. If he’s trying to take care of his wounds himself, then surely he could use some help. Sanji isn’t even sure the man owns any medical supplies. _What if he’s passed out from the pain and his condition is deteriorating, while Sanji just stands here?_

With a burst of determination Sanji goes to his bathroom and digs out his first aid kit. _So what if Zoro’s in a gang? So what if his injuries are from something shady?_ As far as Sanji knows, Zoro is a nice guy and all Sanji can picture is the same man who’d greeted him sleepily in the hall or teased him about his slacks, now covered in blood and possibly dying alone in his flat.

—

The door to Zoro’s apartment hasn’t even been locked.

Sanji eyes the doorknob, slicked with red, before taking out his handkerchief and wiping it down. He stares at the fabric’s now marred canvas, and crumples it back into his pocket—the loss of a handkerchief isn’t top of his list of worries.

There’s a pair of boots by the door. Two red footprints are stamped beside them, as if he turned, and stood on each foot as he removed the other’s boot.

Logically, Sanji would next have seen the puddle of clothes by the corner of the kitchen table’s leg, but instead, his eyes are drawn to the tracks of red that pepper the floor to the bedroom.

Each mark—each _pawprint_ —is a lipstick red kiss on the floor: an upside down heart shape in the middle, preceded by four fat tear drops. The needle tip claw marks in front of those have sometimes left angry red scratches, as if the creature were dragging its feet.

Sanji’s heart is in his throat, and already his blood feels like it’s burning the inside of his body. He’d like to say he had premeditative thoughts; that he genuinely considered running away, but moved forward against his better judgment—but he can’t. Truthfully, while fear wanted him to flee, a greater desire pulled him forward like a hook in his chest. He can barely hear his own footsteps over the rush in his ears as he follows the trail through the tiny apartment.

And then everything is quiet. The moment his eyes fall to the form curled on the bed, his own breath is offensively and dangerously loud, as if he were banging pots. His eyes track the rise and fall of the wolf’s pelt, the shiver of singular silver hairs. It’s daylight, and he can blink as many times as he pleases, but it’s not going away. It’s real. It’s alive. _He’s standing feet away from a live wolf._

Then he notices the way it breathes a little too shallow, and his eyes roam over it again, taking in the gashes, the coat clumping with blood, the tear in its ear, the cut over its snout, and finally the patches of matted, bitten fur.

He starts to add up the pieces—the injuries mirror those he saw on Zoro, the footprints that change over at the door, the fact that he saw with his own eyes a man walk into this apartment, where now there is only a wolf.

Sanji takes a step forward.

One eye flicks open.

A new flood of panic seizes Sanji’s body, and he’s staring into the dark pupil, ringed by a halo of deep gold.  He’s sure that something about it is intelligent and full of recognition and oddly familiar and—

“Zoro?” The rough whisper escapes his mouth in a breath before he can stop himself.

It flicks its ear a little, and its eye droops closed by a fraction, in a sleepy way.

_Wait—not ‘it,’_ Sanji thinks. _Zoro._

_This is Zoro I’m looking at._

He’s sure of it.

So, werewolves are a real thing, his hot neighbour is a werewolf, and he’s a very injured werewolf at that. Sanji makes a list of these discoveries. Lists are good. They instill order and organisation, contribute to your peace of mind.

If these things are not facts, then Sanji really has lost his mind.

The Zoro-wolf doesn’t seem to care that Sanji’s seen him. With a huff of breath, he closes his eye fully, but his ears stay pricked to Sanji.

Sanji looks down at the first aid kit still clutched in his hands as if it’s a piece of alien technology. He supposes he’d better do what he came here to do; he’s just not keen on getting his hand bitten off. But if Zoro had wanted to rip his throat out, he probably could’ve done it by now. Unless he’s seriously hurt. More panic ticks through Sanji’s veins. He wants a cigarette.

Slowly, he walks forward, and sets the kit on the ground. He realises he’ll need a cloth and some warm water also, so he backs out of the room, watching the rise and fall of Zoro’s side. Just in case.

He fills a mixing bowl with warm water and a teaspoon of salt, and grabs a tea towel that’s a deep mauve colour, figuring it won’t stain so bad.

Zoro is still breathing when he returns.

Sanji kneels by the mattress, and unzips the first aid kit. He knows that usually, when you clean an animal’s wound, you shave or trim the fur away from the cut first. But quite frankly he’d rather stick a finger in Zoro’s ear than bring out sharp tools in front the wolf.

So instead, he dips half the tea towel in the warm water, squeezes it out a little, and moves to dab the quickly crusting blood on Zoro’s flank.

When the damp fabric meets Zoro’s side, a growl rips from beneath his teeth, and Sanji can _feel_ it vibrate through his chest. White hot fear strikes through Sanji, his eyes snap to meet Zoro’s. The wolf’s head is raised, a black lip pulled up to show pointed canines, ears tilting backward. Sanji braces himself for a lunge, the sting of teeth, a jaw clamping over his limbs or hands.

It doesn’t come.

He lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding, and meets Zoro’s eyes.

“I have to clean them. You don’t want them getting infected, do you?”

A low, quiet growl.

Sanji sniffs. “Look, don’t be snooty about this. You look too beat to even lick them clean yourself. Just let me do this.”

Zoro stares at him a few moments. He huffs, flicks his ear, and lets his head drop back down, as if to say _fine,_ _do what you want._ Sanji is copping attitude from a _wolf._

Nevertheless, Sanji is gentle when he moves, carefully wiping away blood, dabbing at the open wounds. It must sting a little, because sometimes when the damp cloth meets the scrapes, Zoro’s flank will twitch. When Sanji is halfway through cleaning the biggest gash, Zoro lets out a whine.

Sanji stills for a second, before he haltingly reaches his other hand out to stroke Zoro’s neck.

The fur is smoother and softer than he’d anticipated, and he can easily bury his fingers in it, carding them through the thick coat. A barely audible sigh can be heard, air whistled through Zoro’s nose. His side relaxes a little, and Sanji resumes dabbing at the cut, without stopping his other ministrations.

The bowl of water is discoloured and grimy by now, so Sanji stands. Zoro makes a plaintive sound.

“I’ll be right back.”

Sanji replaces the water, and washes out the towel as best he can, before returning. It takes another fifteen minutes or so before Zoro’s coat is as clean as he can get it. Sanji dabs antiseptic cream on the inside of gauze pads, and then tapes them over the angrier wounds. Zoro tries to rub one off with his nose before Sanji berates him, telling him he’s just gonna have to suck it up.

The sun has set by the time this is over, and Sanji’s body is drained of adrenaline, leaving him heavy and tired. He _could_ go back to his apartment, but he also wants to keep an eye on Zoro, just in case.

He’s about to let himself flop down onto the couch when a thought crosses his mind. _What if Zoro gets thirsty during the night?_

Sanji finds another bowl from the kitchen, and fills it with water. When he goes to place it by the mattress, he sees that Zoro is already asleep.

The other’s breaths have evened out and slowed, his nose tucked under a paw. Sanji sets the bowl down quietly, and tip-toes out to the lounge where he promptly crashes onto the couch and passes out from exhaustion.

It’s the first time he’s fallen asleep so quickly in weeks.

—

Sun warms Sanji’s skin, illuminating motes of light where it spills in from the window and shines brightly in a large patch on the floor. There isn’t a cloud in the sky and the uninterrupted blue catches Sanji’s attention as he slowly opens his eyes.

He blinks once, twice, clears away the sleep with a stretch against the cushions then abruptly freezes in place. _Cushions?_

Everything comes rushing back to him in a single moment and he springs off the couch.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep but it’s obviously morning and there’s no sign that Zoro’s been up and about. That could either be good or bad, there’s no way to know for sure until he goes and check’s Zoro’s room. What he finds there does nothing to help the state of his heart, because the bed is not only empty, but also bloodied and torn up, sheets an unsalvageable mess and pillows ruined.

The window is closed and there’s no fresh blood on the floor, and Sanji knows he’s too light of a sleeper for Zoro to have gotten past him at night. Zoro’s disappeared. And as far as he knows, disappearing isn’t part of being a werewolf.

In a moment of panic, Sanji kneels down and checks under the bed, opens and closes Zoro’s tiny closet and even checks out the window. Still nothing and he can feel his heart beating even faster in his chest.

_How did he fucking lose an_ entire wolf— _and an injured one at that_?

His fingers itch for a cigarette and he’s seconds away from turning over the entire apartment when he suddenly realizes that the white noise in the back of his head is actually the sound of the shower. Taking a few deep breaths, he listens carefully and hears a few soft sounds as Zoro shifts under the steady stream of water.

His entire body relaxes in an instant and he takes the time to run a hand through his hair, grumbling _“It’s too early for this shit,”_ as he leaves Zoro’s room and returns to the couch. He sits awkwardly and stares out the window, acutely aware of the spare cigarette he keeps in his breast pocket and the social convention that makes him unable to light it.

The initial panic has faded with the knowledge Zoro is still in the apartment, but it’s been replaced by a new kind of worry. Zoro was a _wolf_ last night; he was injured badly and unable to take care of himself. And Sanji, Sanji had just invited himself into the other man’s apartment and uncovered his supernatural secret. He doesn’t know what kind of reception he’s going to get when Zoro gets out of the shower, but he’s not leaving until he knows for sure that Zoro’s alright. And it wouldn’t hurt to get some answers too.

The water shuts off and the door to the bathroom opens, followed by the sound of footsteps. Sanji lifts his head just in time to see Zoro step out into the hall, looking completely human—or at least as human as Zoro’s ever looked, chiseled as he is like some kind of Greek god. There’s a towel around his waist and water dripping down his skin and Sanji’s mind momentarily short circuits.

It takes longer than it should for him to get past all of the naked skin and focus on the real miracle he’s witnessing. Zoro is almost completely healed. There’s not a single bruise on him, the cut on his nose is gone, and there are only a few fading scars and scabs where the larger scrapes and gashes had been. The tear in his ear is now only a thin red line.

Their eyes meet and Zoro just stares back at him, no hint on his face as to what he’s thinking. Zoro’s not normally very expressive and Sanji hasn’t had issue with it in the past, but now he can’t help but wonder what’s going on behind those deep golden eyes.

Now that Zoro’s strength is back, maybe he’s planning to get rid of Sanji in order to keep his secret. Or maybe he’ll just kick him out and tell him to never come back, confident that no one would ever believe Sanji’s story. (Hell, Sanji barely believes the story and he’s the one living it.)

Zoro just scratches the back of his head, an action that is decidedly dog-like now that Sanji knows what to watch for, and generally looks far too sleepy and damp to really be threatening. “I’m hungry,” he says. “You want breakfast?”

Sanji blinks, once, twice, gauging the situation before carefully saying, “Yes?”

This has got to be the most surreal experience he’s ever had. Not only has he discovered his neighbor’s a werewolf, but said werewolf is now casually offering him a meal. Part of him wonders if he’s somehow still dreaming, or if he’s hit his head and is in the hospital having some kind of drug-induced hallucination.

He sits down at the kitchen table and waits the few minutes it takes for Zoro to pad off then reappear wearing actual pants. If it’s supposed to be a form of modesty, he’s far from the mark, since pants are the _only_ article of clothing he’s decided to put on.

He’s chosen to forgo a shirt and apparently any form of underwear as well, pants sitting dangerously low on his hips with no trace of an additional waistband. His feet are bare on the kitchen tile as he moves around the kitchen pulling out bread and eggs and a package of sausage.

It takes less than a minute for Sanji to realize Zoro is horrible at cooking. Pans are the wrong size, the oven is set too high, and Sanji’s strung out enough that he can’t take this affront to such an innocent kitchen.

“Hey, uh, why don’t I cook?” He offers. “You let me stay over and I like cooking anyway so…”

Thankfully, Zoro doesn’t fight him on it and easily plunks down at the table and lets Sanji take over. The eggs are beaten and poured into a pan to be scrambled, the bread is set aside to be toasted. Sanji grabs the packet of sausages and looks at it for a moment, then back to Zoro, meeting the man’s eyes because Zoro has just been _watching_ him this entire time.

“So,” Sanji starts. “Do you want these pretty much raw?”

There’s a beat of silence as they both just look at each other before Zoro slowly says, “...No thanks.”

Sanji shrugs and puts the sausage into a pan to cook, giving the eggs a flip before turning on the vent above the stove.

“What was with the bowl of water?”

Sanji turns back at the sudden question and leans his hip against the counter, spatula held carefully away from his shirt as he crosses his arms. “I thought you might get thirsty,” he explains. “You were really hurt and I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to move around on your own.”

Zoro nods slowly then looks Sanji in the eye and carefully says, “Please never leave me a water bowl again.”

Out of that entire sentence, it’s the _‘again’_ that Sanji catches on the most. Because that implies there will be a next time, and possibly even more times after that. Then the rest of the sentence filters in and he feels a blush heat his cheeks. Quickly turning back to the stove, he clears his throat and checks on the eggs, flips the sausages and sticks the bread in the toaster.

“Okay,” he says.

And that’s that. A few more minutes pass and then they’re sitting down to breakfast, just the sound of silverware scraping against plates and eager chewing to fill the silence between them. It seems Zoro really likes the food and Sanji’s glad he’d made extra because Zoro eats everything put in front of him.

When he’s nearly finished he looks up from where he’s half bent over his plate and says, “Thank you for cooking.” Sanji waves him off but he continues anyway. “And thanks for… looking after me. You were pretty worried, weren’t you?”

A small smirk plays at the edges of his lips and Sanji is immediately on the defensive, gesturing to the trail of dried blood still wandering across the floors. “You were bleeding all over the apartment complex!” he says. “You looked _wrecked!_ How the hell was I supposed to know werewolves can just sleep it off, you asshole?”

His voice picks up speed and volume as he goes and Zoro still has that obnoxious half-smirk on his face, a look in his eyes that says he finds this all kinds of amusing.

“And how did you even manage to fuck yourself up so badly?” Sanji presses “Aren’t werewolves supposed to be super strong and fast or something?”

Zoro huffs out a laugh at Sanji’s questioning. “Pack fights,” he says. He leans forward in his chair, grin growing wider and his eyes glinting with something decidedly predatory. “I keep challenging the alpha.”

Sanji stares at him, waiting for some kind of explanation or even the punch line, but nothing comes.

_Oh god,_ Sanji thinks. _He’s an idiot._

_He’s a fucking werewolf_ and _an idiot._

_Why in the world do I like him so much?_

It’s a mystery, truly, because while Sanji can appreciate the aesthetic qualities that Zoro’s working with, he doesn’t know what about the uncouth and stoic man has drawn him in so much.

Unaware of how he’s just been insulted, Zoro goes back to eating and quickly polishes off his plate, cocking his head to the side when one of their neighbors drops what sounds like a mug. Then he looks back to Sanji, those golden eyes boring into him until Sanji coughs and stands, gathering the dishes and putting them in the sink.

Sanji can feel himself tensing up again but Zoro just yawns, wide and unabashed, and Sanji’s struck with the realization that it’s still _Zoro._ Still the same man who walks up ten flights of stairs and has ridiculous green hair and makes fun of Sanji for holding doors.

The chair scrapes as Zoro stands and comes over to the sink, takes a place at Sanji’s side and says, “I’ll dry.”

Sanji’s heart is still beating a touch too fast, but he calms down as the dishes pass from his hands to Zoro’s, the methodical task helping to ease his nerves. Zoro’s warm and solid and real beside him. That’s enough for him.

—

_Cologne. Sharp on his nose, masculine, expensive._

_Cigarette smoke. Earthy, light and biting like toothpaste—menthol._

_Grilled fish. Lemon, white wine._

Zoro can even smell his conditioner.

( _It’s coconut scented._ )

He resists the urge to whine like a kicked puppy, and buries his face in his pillow.

He’s been smelling Sanji all day. Every scent that catalogues the entirety of the man is blaring in his face. It’s like Zoro’s radar is consumed by Sanji, hyper-focused on him, on every step he takes in the apartment next door, every time he sighs.

It grates against Zoro that he knows these things, but not others. He doesn’t know why Sanji’s sighing, can’t tell what he’s thinking. Zoro’s not psychic.

The smell of Sanji has been driving him mad all day. But it’s not a weary irritation or dislike.

It’s quite the opposite, actually. The smells are overwhelming enough without him attaching them to the man next door. He likes them, but he doesn’t need his senses filled with Sanji when his mind is already filled with him.

It’s an overstimulating agony.

He hears the click of a pocket lighter, the rolling of metal lighting a spark. Zoro can imagine Sanji’s lips pulling in the first lungful of smoke.

The sound of pacing resumes.

Sanji’s been pacing for about ten minutes now, ever since he finished lunch and cleaned the dishes. This is his third cigarette.

Zoro listens to him pace some more, hears him stop by the window for a minute, and then resume again. This continues for a little while before the steps move into the kitchen. He hears the metallic clang of a trash can lid, the kind you step on a paddle to open and then let fall shut.

There is silence for a moment, and then the steps move to the front door. It’s opened, closed, and locked. Another moment of silence. Zoro needlessly strains his ears.

His whole body tenses when he hears Sanji’s footsteps in the hall, heading straight for his door. He leaps off the bed.

\--

Before Sanji’s knuckles can even meet the surface of the door, it’s swung open from inside.

Zoro stands in the doorway. A pair of grey sweatpants are slung over his hips and his feet are clad in a mismatched pair of socks, one green, one black.

The scars from two nights ago have completely vanished. Sanji almost deludes himself that if he were to reach out and touch where invisible wounds should be, he’d feel them. But he knows there’d only be smooth skin.

“Do you never wear a shirt?”

Zoro rolls his eyes. “Hello to you, too. Come in.” Sanji complies, and Zoro shuffles back toward the couch. “My body temperature is higher than a human’s. If I can avoid sweating my ass off in my own home, I will, and my half naked body bothering you is not my problem.”

Sanji _is_ bothered by it, but not for the reason Zoro might think.

“And what’s with opening the door before I even knock? Creepy.”

Zoro flops down on the couch and folds his hands behind his head, which displays his biceps in a manner that should be made illegal. “I heard you coming.”

“You _heard_ me coming,” Sanji shakes his head a little and lets himself fall onto the other end of the couch, leaning a hand along the back. “Of course you did.”

Zoro grins a little.

Sanji sighs. “Is there anything else weird about you that I should know? Do I get _the talk_ now?” He doesn’t mention that that’s sort of why he’s here. Questions have been brimming on his lips ever since yesterday morning, when he left a healed and human Zoro to return to his own apartment. The excuse that he has tucked under his belt is that he left his first aid kit here.

A smile ghosts Zoro’s lips before his expression takes on a more serious quality. “Well firstly, I think I should tell you—if it’s not already obvious—this whole werewolf thing has to be kept secret.”

Sanji nods, letting Zoro continue.

“And _no,_ I do not eat raw meat, or go around killing animals.” Zoro frowns a little. “Or people. Nor do I turn people into werewolves. That whole biting-and-turning people stuff is a myth, lycanthropy is genetic.” He pauses, looking over to the window where the sun dominates the sky. “Sure, some werewolves in the past have gone… feral, and that’s where the stories come from. But most of us aren’t like that. Humans can be monsters too.”

Sanji can see his has a point. It also doesn’t escape Sanji’s notice that Zoro’s eyes look lovely pooled with light.

“My powers aren’t supernatural, per say,” Zoro continues. “But my senses and physique are heightened. I’m naturally a little stronger and faster, have an amplified sense of smell, more sensitive hearing—” Zoro pauses, and a strange look settles on his face for a moment, a hint of red over his cheekbones, before he coughs a little. “And that’s pretty much the basics.”

His final comment rouses Sanji’s curiosity. He wonders in what other small ways Zoro differs, how his life could be different from Sanji’s: the unique, small details. He wants to know them. He wants to know everything about Zoro.

It fills him with a perverse pleasure that he’s privileged enough to even know Zoro like this, as he is. And yet still, he wants more.

“Do you have questions?” Zoro’s voice borders on sarcastic. Sanji’s curiosity must be written on his face.

There are some things he doesn’t want verbal answers to. He wants to know if Zoro likes being scratched behind the ear, but he doesn’t want to ask; he wants to find out for himself. He wants to know if Zoro needs vigorous exercise to stay healthy, if maybe Zoro likes hiking, if maybe they could visit a reserve or a mountain some time. He wants to know if Zoro growls in his human form when you provoke him, if sometimes his canines are a little too sharp for a human’s when he smells good food. Sanji wonders what his favourite food is, wonders if Zoro would like it if he cooked for him.

There’s a verbal question that needs to precede these silent ones, though.

“So…” Sanji’s voice is weaker and smaller than he’d hoped. He clears his throat. “Do you have a mate? In your pack?”

Zoro’s eyes widen, and it’s probably the most surprised expression Sanji’s ever seen on his face.

“Uh,” Zoro blinks. “No, I don’t. If I did I’d probably be living with them… sharing territory, and all.”

Sanji wonders if their adjoined apartments count as one territory, before he sweeps that thought under the rug. A smile is creeping across Zoro’s face, the kind of smug one that he doesn’t trust. The skin under his collar heats up.

“Why do you ask?”

Now Sanji is sure the blush has spread to his cheeks. He stands abruptly, before casually running a hand through his hair, turning his face from Zoro and muttering, “No reason. By the way, I left my first aid kit here…”

Despite his fumbled, quiet words, Zoro hears him just fine, and replies in a normal voice. “It’s on the kitchen counter.”

Sanji finds it there, aware that Zoro has stood and followed him into the kitchen.

He offers Zoro a smile. “I’ve got to go grocery shopping, I need some stuff for dinner.” It’s only partly a lie; he could prepare dinner and make do with what’s in the fridge, but it is about time he went grocery shopping. And it’s therapeutic. Grocery shopping is one of Sanji’s favourite chores. “So I’ll see you later, I guess?”

He’s heading for the door when a hand catches his wrist.

He looks around, meeting Zoro’s eyes, a little wide again. His dark pink lips are parted slightly. When Sanji just stares, Zoro looks down to the side.

“Hey, so…” The man’s cheeks flush slowly, dusted with a pink to match his lips. “Did you maybe wanna go on a date sometime?”

Sanji’s heart contracts a little and his stomach flips over. _Did I hear that right?_

He can’t believe he’s saying this about Zoro of all people—but he looks cute. _Shy_ isn’t an emotion he thought he’d ever see on the man. There’s clearly plenty more to learn about Zoro in all areas, and he’s hungry for it all.

“Okay.”

Zoro looks up at him then, the sweetest smile watering out his face, careful quirks to the corners of his lips like secrets.

More confidence wells within Sanji, and he smiles, feeling the same careful coyness make up his features. “Okay,” he repeats. “Yeah, sure.”

Zoro’s grin spreads fully and Sanji notices a dimple on one of his cheeks.

“Wanna come grocery shopping with me?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Zoro releases his wrist, leaving Sanji’s skin with warm fingerprints, and grabs his keys. He disappears into his bedroom and comes back shrugging a navy t-shirt over his torso. Sanji watches a little wistfully as his bare skin disappears.

“Let’s go.”

Sanji holds the door open for him, and watches as Zoro locks it behind him.

“Let’s go,” Zoro echoes again.

Sanji stares at him a moment, before another small smile creeps across his face. When he walks past Zoro, he places a kiss on the man’s cheek.

“Let’s take the stairs.”

—

As they’re loading groceries into the boot of Sanji’s car, Zoro furrows his brows a little, arms laden with bags.

“Wait, was this a date? Did you take me on a first date to the _supermarket?_ ”

 

 

 


End file.
